


Desert Heat

by roane



Category: James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Two Two One Bravo Baker Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, British Military, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/pseuds/roane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is not the kind of distraction John needs right now, but something about the way the newcomer walks, cocksure and prowling, makes John itch to either punch him or fuck him. Possibly both."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desert Heat

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Two Two One Bravo Baker](https://archiveofourown.org/works/180121) by [abundantlyqueer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/pseuds/abundantlyqueer). 



> This started out as a 221B, but had to end up as more. :) Many thanks to my betas, [hiddenlacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna), [prettyarbitrary](http://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyarbitrary), and [LapOtter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LapOtter), and also to [thisprettywren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren) who sent me snippets of dialogue to use. 
> 
> And of course, to [abundantlyqueer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer), for writing such an amazing John Watson and making me fall in lust with the bugger to begin with--and for letting me play in her world.

"Whose bright idea was it to send the fucking Navy to the desert, anyway?" John scrubs sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his t-shirt, glaring at the SBS commander talking to another section leader nearby. He's supposed to help with recon, but he's proving a distraction: blond, taller than John, and muscled like a Yank.  
  
"You've been eyeing his arse since he got here," Blackwood says, elbowing him hard enough to earn a grunt.  
  
" _Everyone's_ been eyeing his arse," John complains. "Henn's threatening to climb him like a goddamned tree." This is not the kind of distraction he needs right now, but something about the way the newcomer walks, cocksure and prowling, makes John itch to either punch him or fuck him. Possibly both.  
  
"I have it on good authority that Henn isn't his type," says Blackwood.  
  
"Doesn't like cock?"  
  
"Doesn't like loudmouths."  
  
John snickers and starts to answer, but Blackwood kicks his foot. The man in question is heading their way. Both John and Blackwood straighten and salute him, which he returns.  
  
"Captain Watson, a moment?" The voice isn't quite a growl, but it's rough-edged enough to make John's gut tingle. His eyes meet John's and there's a spark, dark blue against ice blue, like flint striking a stone.  
  
"Of course. My tent or yours, Commander Bond?"  
  
"Mine, if that's all right. Follow me?"  
  
John nods, and glances back at Blackwood as he walks away. Blackwood, the prick, flashes him a none-too-subtle thumbs up and a smirk. John rolls his eyes and follows Commander Bond.  
  
The tent is one of the ones kept for visiting soldiers: bare-bones, little more than a cot with a footlocker stuck under a scrap of canvas. John's own quarters aren't precisely the lap of luxury, but they're in the centre of the camp. Here, they're on the edges, more out of the way.  
  
"Well done, taking out that sniper," Bond says. He doesn't offer John a seat, but neither does he sit himself.  
  
John tilts his head and flashes his teeth. "I do what I can."  
  
"Bit of a risk, though, breaking cover like that. You could have been killed."  
  
"Bullets are the least frightening thing here," John says, biting out a laugh. "Even the fucking weather wants to kill us."  
  
Bond studies him for a long moment, and John can feel the drag of his gaze over his skin. "You've a reputation for being a bit mad, Watson," Bond says. "How mad?"  
  
John isn't quite standing at attention, but it's close. "Well, sir, I don't think of it as mad, precisely. I'd call it a 'willingness to ignore situational risks'." He manages to keep back a grin, but can't keep the gleam entirely from his eyes.  
  
"I see. And what sort of 'situational risks' apply here?" Bond takes a step closer to John, who lifts his chin.  
  
"Not enough data to go by yet, sir. Maybe a potential break in the chain of command. I need more input." He keeps his eyes on Bond, studying each flickering facial expression.  
  
"Input." The word has a filthy overtone as Bond's voice drops into that lower register again. The corner of his mouth twitches. "I'm not actually your superior officer."  
  
"No sir, but you do outrank me." The back of John's neck is prickling, and goosebumps are threatening to break out on his arms.  
  
"I'm willing to ignore that. You?"  
  
John looks Bond over, taking in the way his uniform shirt skims over the planes of muscle covering his chest and stomach. He looks up to find Bond watching him. Once more, their eyes meet, but here in the relative privacy of the tent, there's nothing to prevent that initial spark from growing. The tingle in John's gut expands centre-outward, and he can feel heat creeping up the back of his neck. "I'm willing to ignore a lot of things for a good reason," John says, closing another few inches of space, bringing them well into each other's personal space.  
  
"I can think of several very good reasons," Bond says, and closes the last gap between them.  
  
It's an awkward kiss, too urgent to allow for a comfortable fitting-together of their bodies; their mouths open, biting--John finds himself wrapped in a single very strong arm and hauled tight against Bond's body while his other hand curls around the back of John's head, holding him in place. He grabs at the thick muscle at the back of Bond's neck with one hand, one of his shoulders with the other, wishing there was something more substantial than canvas walls around them, wanting to press them back against brick or stone. They manage to fit together for something resembling a real kiss before breaking apart to stare at each other, gasping.  
  
John reaches down and pulls his uniform shirt out of his trousers and starts unbuttoning it with fingers that threaten to shake. He sees Bond doing the same. John waits until Bond has his t-shirt halfway over his head, then steps forward, grabbing the shirt and twisting it in place, pinning Bond's arms in the fabric. He runs his fingers down Bond's broad back with his other hand, fingers curled so his nails will bite sharply into the skin. Bond hisses and strains, trying to pull free. John's lower centre of gravity helps him keep his feet, and he takes his advantage, pinching one of Bond's nipples, gratified at the way his body jerks in surprise.  
  
As he leans in to swipe his tongue over the other one, Bond surges forward, hooking his right foot behind John's legs as his left shoulder shoves forward, throwing both of them off-balance. John goes loose as they start to fall, hitting the ground with a grunt. As soon as he lands, he pushes back hard, rolling them until he winds up on top, straddling Bond. John leans forward with all of his weight, pulling the tangled shirt clear of Bond's head before bending down to steal another biting kiss, following the sharpness of teeth with a wet swipe of his tongue.  
  
"Bastard," Bond mutters against his mouth, and John grins in response before biting his neck. John can feel him tensing beneath his thighs, ready to throw him off. John grinds down, dragging his swelling cock over Bond's. In the distraction, he tightens his grip on Bond's elbows and settles in to a steady rhythm of thrusting against Bond's hips.  
  
Bond closes his eyes and tilts his head back briefly, lips parting. John attacks his neck again, tonguing the cold metal chain of his ID tags out of the way and panting against the golden skin covering the hard line of his trapezius muscle. Jesus, the muscle definition. He feels like he's lying on top of a rock, only warm and threatening to squirm out from under him. He can feel how hard Bond is now. John presses his forearm across his throat to keep him still and snakes a hand between their bodies. He cups Bond's cock through his trousers, running his thumb along the stiff shaft. Bond groans, and that's invitation enough for John to undo the button and slip his fingers inside, inching the thin cotton pants out of the way until his fingers are moving over hot silky skin.  
  
"Christ, Watson." Bond's voice is strained, and he wriggles to give John greater access. John is just starting to curl his fingers around Bond's cock when Bond shifts to the left suddenly. John follows to keep from being thrown, realising a second too late he's fallen for a feint. Bond dodges the other way, unbalancing John and rolling. In a moment, John is flat on his back and a little winded. Bond looms over him with a wicked glint in his eyes. Honestly, what sort of man attacks when you have his cock in your hand?  
  
"You let your guard down," Bond says. "You should never do that."  
  
John's hand is still down his pants, so he gives a slight squeeze. "Are you giving me combat instruction right now?"  
  
"No, you seem to have things well in hand." He smirks, thrusting against John. He leans down to kiss John, holding himself up one-handed so he can unfasten John's trousers. John lets go of Bond's cock long enough to arch his hips up, shoving trousers and pants down around his thighs. He does the same for Bond before dragging his palms up the backs of his thighs to cup what proves to be a magnificent arse. John pulls Bond in towards him, and both men gasp as their cocks slide together and they press skin against skin down the length of their bodies.  
  
They begin a slow, teasing struggle for power. Bond pins John's hands over his head and ruts against his cock until John is dizzy with arousal, but he can't stop squirming and trying to break free of the hold. Their legs twist and twine together as they wrestle, each trying to get a hold of the other's body. Finally John feels a slight momentary laxness in Bond's grip, and he throws his body forward, rolling them both over. Rather than pinning Bond's hands over his head, John catches them down by his hips, pinning them nearly beneath his arse. He straddles one of Bond's thighs with a triumphant grin, then starts sliding down the length of it, breathing open-mouthed and soft at the feel of lightly furred skin dragging against his perineum and the undersides of his balls.  
  
Bond stops struggling for the moment, watching him warily. Once John is in position, he leans down and without hesitation or teasing and opens his mouth to draw Bond's cock in, a slow sucking slide up the length as far as he can go. Bond's body stiffens, then relaxes as he gives a low, growling groan. The sound makes John's cock twitch and he barely resists the urge to rut against Bond's calf. He slides his mouth up and down Bond's cock, just deep enough so that the wet, silken tip barely brushes his soft palate, just at the threshold of triggering his gag reflex.  
  
"If I had known this is what you had in mind, I would have let you win sooner," Bond says.  
  
John tugs off Bond's cock with a sharply wet 'pop' and grins at him with lips starting to tingle with exertion. "If you had 'let me win', I wouldn't be sucking your cock."  
  
"In that case, you beat me fair and square. I surrender, Captain." Bond's head drops back and John lowers his mouth again, this time releasing Bond's hands so he can explore his body. Each bump and ridge of his taut abdomen makes John--who's never considered himself a muscle fan--want to shimmy up Bond's thigh and slip his cock into that tightly-muscled arse.  
  
But that would require stopping for the inevitable negotiation and fumbling for lube and condoms, and John doesn't want to stop. Still, he can't resist teasing one finger between the cheeks of Bond's arse, just to to gauge the reaction. Bond doesn't flinch in surprise, but he laughs and murmurs, "Later." John just strokes his fingertips along Bond's sweat-damp perineum and bobs his head faster, feeling the twitch as Bond's balls draw in closer to his body.  
  
He pulls off long enough to snarl, "Come on," softly. The answer he gets is something close to a strained whimper, so he renews his assault, curling his mouth around the newly-salty tip of Bond's cock. It doesn't take much longer. Bond starts coming with a gasp, cock jerking and pulsing into John's mouth. He nearly chokes as the first spurt hits the back of his throat, but starts swallowing quickly to miss most of the taste.  
  
Aside from the gasp, Bond is silent as he comes, body shaking and twitching as if there were deadly current arcing through him. John waits until he stops, then slowly pulls the softening cock out of his mouth, licking it clean as he goes. His lips ache, making his grin rubbery.  
  
"Get up here," Bond growls, hauling John up by the armpits until he's sprawled atop him again. Bond rolls until they're on their sides, and reaches down to wrap strong fingers around John's cock. His fingers are warm, calloused and rough against John's skin. He can feel the warmth starting to bloom in his gut, but tries to fight it, wanting to hold off as long as he can. Bond doesn't help, by lowering his mouth to John's ear and murmuring, "Knew you'd be a good fuck."  
  
"And how," John says, trying not to pant, "did you know that?"  
  
Bond swirls his thumb over John's foreskin and through the liquid leaking from the tip of his cock, coating everything before switching to a stronger grip. "You're not afraid of risk." He nips John's ear and breathes, "You get off on it."  
  
"So do you," he says, and turns to catch Bond's mouth with his, opening against his mouth and teasing his way in with his tongue. He strokes his hand up the side of Bond's face and into the short strands of his hair, pulling tight as he bucks his hips against the hand around his cock. Pleasure builds in his thigh muscles, growing until it threatens to knock the breath out of him.  
  
"Fuck, I'm going to--"  
  
"Do it."  
  
John bites his lower lip to keep from groaning loudly, his head dropping back as he thrusts and thrusts, shocks rocketing along his nerve endings. Bond licks at the front of his throat, murmuring wordless against his skin as he comes. John falls back onto his back, panting and wide-eyed. "Jesus Christ, Bond."  
  
Bond chuckles wryly, looking down at himself. "You just came all over my trousers. I think you can call me 'James'."  
  
Not missing a beat, John says, "Jesus Christ, James," then grins at him.  
  
James rolls over and grabs a canteen of water and tosses it to him. As John drinks, James says, "Another round, or have I worn you out?"  
  
John smirks and hands him back the canteen. "Give me ten minutes. In the meantime, take off your boots and find something to hold on to."  
  
The smile he gets in return is fucking brilliant, and John feels like he's won the lottery. "By all means, Captain Watson. I think you'll find what you need in the footlocker."  
  
John laughs, and sits up to start unlacing his boots.


End file.
